CAPTURED FRAMES

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Compliments make me blush, especially when it comes to being
recognized for any sort of achievement. Though, recently my alma mater came out
with the most fair-handed press release about my progression as a writer. I
don't think I could've asked for a more honest look at where my passion and
motivation are derived. To have some of my early insecurities revealed to an
audience was truly the best part of me I could offer the public. To have my
peers and strangers understand that for me it isn't about recognition paired
with opportunity, but it's about the every day inspiration and connection, the things I wrestle with daily (because I am human, first and
foremost). And it's also about, what I choose to do with the life experiences I’ve been given—the
ones I attempt to draw from for my art, and the ones I wish to share.

Donald Hall, in his eighties, published an essay titled, “A Yeti
in the District”. Which speaks volumes of his humble nature, and how
out-of-place and uncomfortable he becomes when thrown into the circus of creative
expectation. I would not dare to compare my achievement or experiences with such
an ingenious man, or his poetic fortitude. But there’s a feeling of solidarity
that comes from knowing there are others, like me, for whom the spotlight is as
unnatural a position one can be put in and that sometimes words like “industry”,
“published” and “awards” can come off sounding quite callous and insensitive to
the person living quietly behind the artist.

After sharing his story about being awarded the National Medal of
Arts, Hall writes, simply: “The next day I got back to writing. What else was
there?”. While at the time, the piercing eye of the press had a field day over
his disheveled appearance at the monumental event. What papers missed in their
account was that the composure and composition of a man like Hall is made up
entirely of character and the historic significance of his life and work. Who
the hell cares if his tie was crooked! He had the kahunas and gumption to put himself out there, to trust an audience
cut away from the critics and who were ready to embrace what he had to say.

How do we really measure the sum of a person’s worth? I will
withhold the James Allen quotes for the time being. There is, however, a story
about Chao-Chou in Zen philosophy that I keep coming across in various texts
and different forms: In which, a monk draws a portrait of the master. When the portrait
is finished and presented to the master, the master studies it and says, “If it’s
really the true image of me, then you can kill me. But if it is not, you should
burn it.”

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Recently, while driving to work, Joni
Mitchell’s song “River” came on over the radio. A song I have always loved (especially
this time of year), because it reminds me of my mother and the many folk
tapes she played in the car when I was a kid. My mother would sing along in a
low, heartfelt way touched by the lyrics of one of her favorite artists, sometimes
looking like she was on the verge of tears. Or she would sing to me and my
sisters at bedtime, songs like “Circle Game” or “Blackbird”.

When I got home later that afternoon,
I looked up an interview with Joni Mitchell online. There had been something
about the song “River” that I hadn’t really noticed before until that morning
commute, and I wanted to learn more about it from the musician’s perspective.

At the beginning of the interview,
Ms. Mitchell seems cynical, on-guard, and defensive. She can’t really see her
lifetime accomplishments or contributions. But instead, she seems more concerned
about how others misinterpret who she is as a person. She chain smokes, as she
apprehensively eyes the interviewer, Jian Ghomeshi.

What stood out for me over the course of the interview, was not
only the way she was self-aware of her growth as a person and artist, (“I am liquid,”
she says, and “I don’t like looking back”) but how she ends on the thought and point that we are all truly alone on this Earth, and let’s face it.

The song “River” begins with the
image of people getting ready to celebrate Christmas, which is the kind of
connectedness we as a culture get nostalgic over. But as the song continues,
she speaks of detachment, too. Like when she says in her interview, “Everything
I am, I’m not.”

♦

I’ve been spending quite a bit of
time with an aging population these days—a mostly forgotten population. I think
a lot about how they feel, as sometimes my role is to anticipate their needs in
a care-giving way. I wonder if they feel alone, or how they feel about
strangers assisting them in the most personal ways imaginable.

When we are young, capable,
attractive and independent we just don’t see that one day it could all go away.
We are vain and selfish, sometimes superficial, and we are so used to the
attention we receive in our youth--trying to stay appealing to others, so that the attention we seek doesn’t fade. But as people grow older and become slower,
more dependent and less capable, they are treated as though they are a burden and we as a society are too impatient to give these folks any consideration.

I truly admire cultures who
respect their elders. How much richer those people are with all that
wisdom and knowledge and stories being passed down to them. How connected they
must feel knowing where they came from.

Being aware of this makes me want
to be more patient with others, and more appreciative of the time I do have
left on this planet. And I know this is an every day practice that will
eventually become just a part of who I am. Though right now, I’m as guilty as
anyone of being selfish, caught up in my own stuff, demanding more and
giving less. I just hope I am graced with a nice, full life so I can make the
changes I need to be a better, contributing person and experience how rich in
other ways life can be.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Yesterday, I found out that I was nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize by The Milo Review for my short story, "We All Come Here From a Long Way Off ". I've been told I need to learn how to celebrate these successes. But so often is the case, publication news and milestones hit me blindsided, because I'm working with my head down (which I have been doing a lot of since relocating to rural Vermont).

I have manuscripts in the works, and that's all I see-- a collection of poetry & a novel. And right now, I'm reliving the whole submission process of trying to find publishers that will consider my work worthy of their time. There's no systematic matrix with this go around, no prayers to a higher power, nor is there the sort of restless anxiety I used to get when I realized a particular piece wasn't quite tight enough or ready to be sent out (but I was impatiently overzealous, and did it anyway). Now, it's all research and simple trial-and-error. I've become a fantastic weeder, understanding where to focus and plot my time, and when to just walk away and let things run their course.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

I’ve gathered all my nuts and
berries for the winter. There’s a storing up process I undertake during the
mild, fall months. It’s all intake and experience and documenting­—making sure
I have a decent amount of material to hold me over through the hibernating
months of cold and snow, so I don’t go mad with cabin fever. I used to find humor in imagining
the crotchety hermit who holes up and writes by the light of a candle’s flame.
Now, I understand why people choose to live in such a way.

In past years, I’ve noticed that
I am by far more productive when I don’t have the distraction of wanting to be
outside in the woods or fields, or on a mountain or by the ocean side. This was actually the first week I didn’t
want to break off freely into the acres around where I live, because hunting
season opened and I find it difficult to enjoy my surroundings when rifles are echoing
through the valleys. I even purchased my first neon orange hat this year, but I
have found it more useful to wear when I’m sitting stationary, chilled and
writing in a drafty old house.

Whoever said making art isn’t a
war zone too?

Right now, I’m tackling two major
manuscripts. They each require abandoning my inhibitions and insecurities to
examine new territory. I certainly have my work cut out for me, with many
challenges to come and an inexhaustible amount of drafts. But I have time, and recognizing
this gives me the patience I need to focus on the tasks at hand.

And this only affirms for me that
I will probably never live full-time in a tropical or temperate place (I’ve
tried before without much success), because the reality is that the seasons
too closely mirror my motivations and moods and development. And so I’m
starting to suspect my fate is sealed in these little dynamic quarters I maintain.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Typically, mornings if the
weather looks clear, I crawl up on the roof and write with a pot of coffee and
a beach chair. There’s a feeling of
exposure being up there, having nothing boxing me in or keeping me away from
the edges. I watch the birds, and work until the blacktop’s too hot to walk
across without any shoes.

On fogless days, there’s a
pristine view of the Casco Bay and its outlying
islands. The sailboats, the ferries and the cargo ships—all out and going since
dawn. And as I discovered from the roof’s vantage point just this last week, the sun
coming up over those waters is more brilliant and perfect than the idea of it.

Even at night, under the milky
cataract of moonlight, there is something both serene and surreal that makes me
feel removed. But also, invigorated; with energy that comes in on all sides.

I lost two poems off the roof
today. The day after heavy rain and
there is always a straggling current of air that smells like
the stormy day before. I was lost in thought: thinking about how sensually hands shape
to organic matter; how they can adjust in force or tenderness, as if they have
a mind of their own....I was also listening to the wind blow over the cracked chimney
next door, which naturally made the sound of a mouth whistling over a bottle. Two
notes: simultaneously high and low.

It was during one of these
tailwind gusts, a couple loose-leaf pages—unattached and shoved inside a book I
opened too freely—danced right off the roof.

I sat there for a minute, still
deciding what to do. I thought maybe it was a sign I wasn’t meant to keep those
words permanent, and that I should perhaps move on to something else.

Finally I got up, close to the
ledge and looked over.

One page had landed in a neighbor’s
yard among their clutter of car parts and kid toys, and the other had landed on
a second-story deck beneath a charcoal grill.

Since I was too embarrassed to
knock on either door to ask if I could retrieve my poems, I chose to sneak
around the building to the more accessible yard, hoping no one would see me or
ask why I was trespassing, “For the
likely story of a poem,” right?

As I located the piece of paper
among a litter of other gutter remnants, I was startled by someone clearing
their throat. Looking up to the porch behind me, all I could see was a pair of
jeans and a partial eye peeking out from a foreground of tomato and pepper
plants.

I waved my hand in greeting,
holding the page over my head. “My poem flew off the roof,” I called out. “Just
grabbing my poem.”

Instantly, I realized this could’ve
been a pet parakeet I was referring to and I probably would’ve gotten the same
response, which was:

“These tomatoes. I didn’t think
they’d go, but they did. Now look at 'em.”

“They’re beautiful,” I agreed. “Must’ve
of been all that rain we just got.”

The man behind the bushes then pointed out to a corner of
yard now taken over by a forgotten swing set. “Used to have a garden, there.”

I tried to imagine it, as he moved away from the plants and
the balcony so I could see his face. He had sad eyes, and he limped on the
stairs.

He looked at me, then back to the wooden boxes full of
healthy green vines. “Those are some tomatoes, huh?”

I nodded, and he seemed satisfied with this and went inside.

Walking down his driveway with poem in hand, I knew I wouldn’t
be getting the other lost page back, because of what it might entail.

When I returned to the roof to finish my work, curiosity got
the best of me and I took a look over to see if the page was still there on the deck
beneath the grill.

I discovered that it wasn’t, and it was likely picked up by the
residents of the house. I then wondered if they had decided it was trash and
threw it out.

It was a short poem, written in a flash of thought. I know I
won’t remember the exact words I used, so it’s already a forgotten poem. But I
understand that more poems can be formed from even the faintest memory of verse. Just like the man who planted his tomato seeds remembering how he once had a fine garden of his own.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

I’d forgotten what it was like to
put time into a longer project. Following the wrap up of graduate school, I
optimistically deserted my thesis (and its many incarnations) knowing that it was
in the best interest of my sanity to let my first manuscript stew in a drawer,
out of sight, out of mind. And if I ever felt so inclined, dried up, or
nostalgic, the one-foot draft pile would be there where I’d left it.

I honestly believed that there
were bigger and brighter ideas to tackle out there (in the figment of every
writer’s world). Things that people
really cared about. I already knew some things,
and could certainly write my knowledge into the broader spectrum of things.
And so it was the end of a proverbial relationship, my manuscript and I were
taking a break, and surprisingly I didn’t feel a morsel of remorse over how it
all went down.

I joked, It will be my first written, last published piece. Posthumously, of
course. Since we all know how the ego loves morbidity.

I’d also
forgotten what it was like to be in a relationship with another human being.
Not another artist, not another project, but another person who made time for
me and deserved my time in return. During the occasional bout of
rationale, it seemed essential to shift my energies to what was budding between
me and my new love interest. Someone actually wanted to be my partner! I didn’t
know what to do with that sort of evidence. And once we got past the I Feel
Worthy, You Feel Worthy insecurities, our shared sentiment to let our love run
freely and evolve naturally, restored my faith in the organic matter of things. I didn’t realize how regimented
I’d become in my personal life and routine, and how much I actually beat myself
up over not creating or not producing enough/smarter/profound material; how
much I aimed to be better at everything I attempted to an unhealthy degree.

It’s better to be like a ball with no edges,
a friend reminded me. You just keep rolling with it, bumping
along even the rockiest of terrain. Now, when you find you and your lifestyle
are more fashioned like a box, you quickly become stagnant or sedentary,
sometimes requiring a forceful budge to get momentum going again.

In less than
two weeks, my partner and I will be beginning what we hope is a sustainable,
cohabiting future. I confess there were years and years where I questioned if I
could ever live with another person. And if I did, how would my art be
affected? I worried about falling into one of those scary “comfort zones” in
relationships, where self-motivation is muted, and passion gets squeezed out by
obligation and the constant proof that unfulfilled individuals seek. I think
about that line in the movie Reality
Bites, where the character Vickie (played by Gene Garofalo) says, “My
parents have been married for 26 years. They’re like brother and sister at this
point. She goes to the bathroom with the door open… [Na-ah, I don’t want that.
I want passion the whole way through]” And who could blame her?

So, the true
test will be finding the balance of honoring the passions I know fulfill me as
an individual (because I’m damn good at doing it alone) and melding together
with my partner in a sharing of experiences and interests and dreams, and also
being able to draw inspiration out of the places I never even thought to look
before.

On Martha’s Vineyard there is a great
thrift store that is unique and not ubiquitous to those I frequent when I’m
home in Portland, ME. For those like me, who enjoy picking
through second-hand and consigned merchandise, you know the smell of worn
clothing and loved furniture. It’s a musty scent, like the inside of a tent
after a camping trip.

However, on the island, my
favorite little thrift store is a converted garage just outside Vineyard Haven,
tucked away near a dead end road that leads to the salt marshes. On nice
weather days, the air circulates from the street where the doors have been
pulled up and open, through the building of racks and boxes and shelves, and out
to sea.

And the finds that can be dug up!
Abandoned paintings and drawings of visiting artists, enough cookware to fill
your kitchen, clothing for those who care about labels (and not the price tag),
tennis rackets and golf clubs and roller blades, tools of antiquity, and books,
books, and more books. I now know to leave extra room in my suitcase, because
it is likely I will be returning home with new reading material.

During my latest trip, I lucked
out and visited the store when all books were ½ off. This was a real score for
me, since my literary budget has been overextended in recent years. I have to
say, if I have a sickness for anything, its spending money on books. I just can’t
help myself, especially when I come across excellent writing. It’s the
equivalent of finding a piece of art hidden or forgotten in a bin, then
discovering the $5 sticker. For a moment, I’m saddened by how under-appreciated
the work is, but my faith is quickly restored when I know I will find value in absorbing
and savoring what the opportunity has afforded me. Acquiring knowledge and being
grateful for the beautiful things brought into this world holds a different
weight than material gains. This is a truth I know.

All and all, I spent $3 and got
three wonderful works for my collection:

Sometimes I blurt things out
without thinking about what I’m saying. Then when the moment has passed and I’m
alone, I think, “Oh, hell.”

Yesterday, I had a bout of Turrets in response to this guy: “So, have you published anything? And where can I find
you?”

“I don’t give my information out.”

“Come’n, Amazon? Do you have
anything on Amazon?”

“God! I hope not.”

“What?” **blink, blink ** with blank look
of confusion on his face.

“I mean, I hope I never do.”

“Wait, why?”

“Because I don’t believe in what
they do, or that they benefit authors. Their sales and distribution, not to
mention the copyright issues…***mumble, mumble***”

The guy walks away, unimpressed. And
I feel like I’ve won, for there was no personal information forfeited. The guy
also probably thinks I’m an asshole without any tact, but that’s okay
considering I’d rather remain true to who I am, than paint an inaccurate
picture of what they want to see.

Ever since I ordered a copy of
Jack London’s Martin Eden online, and
received a digital reprint riddled with grammatical errors, I have not given
Amazon anymore of my business. Instead, I go downtown to my local bookstores, Longfellow and YES!, and see what they have in stock. If they don’t happen to
carry what I’m looking for, I then order it through their distributor. It is
quick, easy and I know the product I’m getting is what I want. Also, by doing
this, I maintain relationships with the staff who work at these establishments and gain recommendations in the process.

The metaphor that can be used here, is this: I need a hammer to hang a picture. I don’t own a hammer, so I decide
to seek one out. Instead of buying a brand new one at a Sears or Lowes that I’ll use for that one
job, I borrow one from the neighbors. And in turn, a level of trust is
established. They know I will return the tool and will be considerate of
their things in the future.

Loyalty is a wonderful achievement.
But it takes multiple parties to be on board with the exchange. It is not a
one-sided agreement, built on convenience. It is having your expectations met
time and time again, and being satisfied with the results.

Too bad that guy didn’t give me a
fair chance to state my case. I bet I could’ve turned him on his head, seeing
the jungle as well as the trees.